


Collateral Damage

by wagamiller



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 06:44:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3371678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wagamiller/pseuds/wagamiller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Popping off buttons is all well and good in the heat of the moment, but how the hell is she supposed to get back to her office now?</i>
</p>
<p>established!Olicity fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Collateral Damage

**Author's Note:**

> I suppose you could call this a belated Valentine's gift to the fandom, to temper the angst of canon lately.
> 
> A little established!Olicity fluff, set somewhere vaguely in the future. Mostly inspired by my love of their somewhat screwball dynamic at times - Oliver's straight man reactions to Felicity's babbling. 
> 
> You'll find no real plot here, but a little nonsense never hurt anyone right? 
> 
> Unbeta'd and written heavily under the influence of cold medication, so please forgive any typos. This was supposed to be short and sweet but it sort of got away from me. Oh, well.

* * *

 

If she’s honest, it’s possible that she’s partly to blame for her current … predicament.

But she's not about to admit that. No, thank you. 

“This is all your fault,” she hisses at Oliver instead, gesturing wildly at the three buttons littering the floor. Three buttons that used to be on her blouse, y'know, _holding it shut_. Before his impatient hands had tugged a little too hard and - _ping!_ \- there they went. 

“Me?” he mouths. The button murderer’s face is a picture of innocent eyes and recently kissed lips. He actually dares to point an accusing finger at her. “You started this.”

“Oh, please,” she objects, reaching up a thumb to wipe away the faint pink stain of her lipstick from his lips. It’s probably not the only place where the colour transferred, she remembers, with a flash of heat that makes her press her aching thighs together. “I did not.”

Oliver scoffs a high-pitched disbelieving noise.

Ok, so technically she had been the one to come into his office in the first place and she _might_ have leaned forward a little more than necessary when she dropped the file onto his desk, giving him a teensy peek down her shirt at the totally awesome balconette bra she’s rocking today. And fine, if we’re being really picky, when his eyes had blown wide and he’d swallowed hard, she hadn’t strictly _needed_ to ask, all coquettish wide eyes, if everything was ok, _Mr Queen?_

But the rest was all him.

He’d been the one to get up from his desk, stalking towards her with suddenly dark eyes. And once he’d taken her hand and tugged her towards the executive bathroom it’d been pretty clear that what he had in mind would involve breaking her strict no sex at work rule. (The rule had extended to _both_ workplaces at first, but they’d blown that - pun very much intended - a few weeks back).

And yeah, she could have stopped him but in fairness to her, _his sleeves were rolled up_. I mean, come on. She’s only human. And maybe it’s because she knows exactly what else he’s got going on up there, under the nice dress shirt that probably cost more than her first car, but that little flash of skin, just his wrist and forearm and the slender line of one scar, it always does … _things_ to her. Things that make sex in the executive bathroom at four thirty in the afternoon seem like a stellar idea.

Plus it’s quite possible that she was feeling a little frustrated.

It’s been so crazy busy in both their day _and_ night jobs lately and they’d finally, _finally_ , caught their latest target last night, but it’d been so late that all they could do was collapse into bed, a tangle of tired and grateful limbs. And then Oliver had gone and put on an absurdly well cut grey suit this morning, then left her at her office door with nothing more than a brief kiss on the cheek and a latte. She’d watched him walk away because, well, why the hell not, and her day had only gone downhill from there.

She’d been in meeting and after meeting, including one absurdly long one about branding the company now that the Queen family was back in control. She’d kept her hand on Oliver’s thigh under the table, the gentle pressure intended to stop him verbally destroying the upstart PR exec who was prattling on about the Queen family brand. It’d worked, but it’d also meant she’d spent a good while with her hand on Oliver’s thigh, in a room full of people, all the while her fingers itched to just _move_. 

So all in all, she can’t be expected to have put up any real resistance when he locked the bathroom door behind them and hoisted her up onto the sink. 

The buttons had gone bye-bye pretty quickly after that. 

All his fault, of course.

It had, in fairness, been pretty hot. 

And she hadn’t exactly noticed the button casualties at the time, preoccupied as she was by his hands peeling down the cup of her bra, his mouth hot against her skin as she fumbled with the buckle of his belt.

(Sidenote: you’d think that sweaty, desperate, half-clothed sex in a bathroom would be, let’s say, not among the top ten classiest things she’s ever done, but this was the _executive_ bathroom and the counter had felt like frigging marble under her ass so y’know what, she’d felt pretty damn classy actually.)

“Ok fine, I didn’t object to … _that_ –” she waves a hand in the general vicinity of his crotch, causing his lips to quirk upwards in a smirk, “but the buttons were all you, Oliver.”

“Can’t you sew them back on?” he asks anxiously, as he buttons his own shirt back up. And wow, isn’t that just salt in the wound? All _his_ buttons are intact because Felicity Smoak is a considerate girlfriend and a god-damn lady so she undid them one by one before shoving the shirt off his shoulders. “It’s not ruined, is it?”

“Oliver, I routinely sew your _skin_ back together,” she reminds him, rolling her eyes, “of course I can sew three buttons back on.”

“So what’s the problem?”

Wow. For a smart man, sometimes Oliver could be the dumbest boy in the building. And there’s a lot of people in this particular skyscraper, so that’s really saying something.

“The problem is that I don’t actually carry a needle and thread around with me!” she hisses, batting an ineffectual smack against his chest. “And the three buttons you popped off go _right_ here,” she adds, pointing to the gaping section right in the middle of her blouse, neatly framing a view of the little bow at the centre of her bra.

“Ah,” Oliver says, getting it at last.

“I can never leave this bathroom,” she says tragically, glancing around the spacious room. “I think I live here now.”

Oliver’s lips quirk, like he’s actually going to laugh. 

“Oh, I’m glad you think this is funny,” she huffs, folding her arms over the gap in her blouse. “Couldn’t have just undone them properly, could you? Patience is a virtue, Oliver.”

“That’s not what you said earlier,” he says, leaning close to murmur the words. His voice is dangerously low, a warm rush of breath over the shell of her ear. It's not fair - she’s still a mess of wobbly limbs and damp skin, so he really shouldn’t be allowed to unleash that voice on her right now. “I seem to remember you … _begging_ for me to go faster, actually. _Harder_.”

Damn it, she actually blushes. 

“Not fair,” she admonishes, closing a warning hand over his bicep. “You can’t hold anything I say during sex against me.”

“Hmm, I never agreed to that,” he shrugs, smirking down at her. He’s got this whole _recently-fucked-and-doesn’t-it-suit-me_ thing going on right now and damn, it’s kind of hard to concentrate on anything but the smile playing around his lips.

“Stop it!” she says, screwing her eyes shut like that might help. She opens them again to flash him what she hopes is a disapproving glare. “This is not solving my–” she waves her hand again at the gap in her blouse, “exhibitionism problem.”

“Can’t I just go get your coat and we’ll go home?”

“I didn’t bring one,” she says, wringing her hands. “I was all ‘ _Yay Spring_ ’ this morning, remember?”

He nods, biting back a smile.

“Stupid Spring,” she mutters. 

“Don’t you have spare clothes in your office?” 

“What, for sex-related emergencies such as this?”

He rolls his eyes, amusement shining through.

“Wait, I actually might have some gym clothes!” she remembers, allowing herself a little fist pump. “Try my bottom desk drawer!”

He narrows his eyes.

“What?” she shoots back, knowing exactly what he’s thinking. “I was going to join the gym in the building, ok?”

“How’s that working out?” he asks, deadpan. 

“Oh, shut up,” she says, making a sour face at him. “You keep me busy enough. With Arrow things!” she adds quickly, before the grin he’s working on can take over his whole face. 

“Just go,” she shoos him towards the door, “third drawer down.”

“Third drawer, got it,” he nods, allowing her to push him towards the door. 

“Wait,” she calls, pulling him back with a hand on his wrist. The same wrist that really, if you think about it, could be said to hold some of the blame for this whole situation. “C’mere a sec.”

He turns back to her and she roves her eyes over him, checking him for any evidence of their recent … _activities_. Satisfied that the pink stain of her lipstick is gone from his lips and that the creases in his shirt could pass for general long day at the office kind of creases, she nods up at him. “Ok, you’re good. Go.”

He leans in and presses a quick chaste kiss to her lips before slipping out the door, flashing her a smile as he slides it shut behind him.

 

* * *

 

 

She’s barely had time to clean herself up and try to tame her sex-in-the-bathroom hair back into successful-executive-who-knows-what-the-fuck-she’s-doing hair when the door clicks open again.

Instinctively, she tugs the gap in her blouse closed.

“Only me,” Oliver assures her quickly, slipping back inside.

“D’you find it ok?”

“Didn’t need to,” he shrugs, tossing her something. “I found this instead, in the conference room - the PR people left us a few samples after the meeting.”

She catches his offering easily, unfolding it to find a dark t-shirt with the new design for the company logo across the front.

“Will it do?”

“You,” she says, wagging a finger at him at the same time as trying to undo the surviving buttons on her shirt, “may have just redeemed yourself.”

He reaches over a hand to help her out of her blouse but she bats his hands away. “Think you’ve done enough damage, don’t you?” 

Oliver pulls a face. “I thought I was redeemed?”

“Doesn’t mean I’m done bringing it up,” she shoots back, passing him the blouse and pulling the t-shirt over her head.

“What if I offer to sew them back on myself?” he asks, running a thumb over the pulled threads left behind.

“You can sew?” 

“Five years, Felicity,” he reminds her mock-sternly, “I can do plenty.” 

“Right,” she says vaguely, a little thrown by the rare casual mention of those years. “Of course.”

Tucking the t-shirt into her skirt, she spins to give herself a quick once over in the mirror over the sink. Oliver’s right behind her and she watches the reflection of his arms snaking up and around her waist, pulling her flush against him. She drops her gaze from the mirror to his flesh and blood hands, locked together around her stomach.

“Let’s go home,” he says suddenly. 

When she flicks her gaze back up at him in the mirror, his eyes are dark and thoughtful and looking at one very _specific_ location.

“You’re kidding me,” she laughs, tipping her head back to knock against his chest. “This is actually turning you on, isn’t it?” 

She waves a hand at her chest, which just so happens to be where the word _Queen Incorporated_ is emblazoned on the t-shirt. 

“No,” Oliver lies, oh-so-badly.

She spins in his arms, away from the reflection of his face and round to the reality. 

“Fine,” he admits, locking his arms around her back, “I kind of like it.”

His tongue darts out, just for a second, to wet his lips as his dark gaze settles right where the lettering of his name stretches over her breasts.

And ok, fine, maybe it’s kind of working for her too.

“I’m going to go get my purse,” she says, manoeuvring herself out of his arms, “meet me in the elevator lobby in five.”

“Deal,” he agrees, so quickly that she can’t help but laugh.

Straightening her skirt, she throws her head back and steps out of the bathroom, adding a little bit more sway to her hips than is strictly necessary as she walks away from him. 

Jerry’s at his desk when she makes it back to her office. His eyes do a subtle double take at her t-shirt. Damn him and his attention to detail. 

“Prototype for the new logo,” she says brightly, “thought I’d give it a whirl. What d’you think?”

“Looks good,” he says, nodding. “What did Mr Queen think?”

“He seemed … keen,” she says blandly, as she grabs her bag.

“More than keen,” Oliver corrects, suddenly appearing in her doorway. “I love it.”

Jerry jumps, pen slipping from his fingers, because he’s not quite used to Oliver’s ninja-like abilities just yet. Even Felicity, well schooled in Oliver’s stealth arrivals, lets out a quick squeak of surprise. 

He’s got his suit jacket on again now, nothing at all out of place and she bites back a sudden smile because no-one except her knows what that brightness in his eyes means, or quite what put it there. His hand hovers over his tie and Felicity has a sudden flashback to pulling at the knot of it, no more than an hour ago, her skirt hitched up around her waist and his hands in her hair.

“Ready to go?” he asks casually, leaning against the doorframe and probably completely unaware that he looks like he’s posing for some sort of magazine piece. _Beautiful Executives in Beautiful Suits_ , or something like that. (The cherry on the cake of him getting the company back? Definitely the suits.)

“Yep,” she agrees, grabbing her tablet and slipping it into her bag. “Goodnight, Jerry.”

“‘Night, Felicity, Mr Queen.” Her EA waves in farewell.

“Bye, Jerry.” Oliver’s hand lands on the small of her back, guiding her out towards the elevators.

And it’s really not fair because it’s only his hand and there’s fabric between his palm and her skin, it really shouldn’t be having _this_  much of an effect on her. But after earlier, she’s still a little hyper-aware of him so the simple touch is not remotely simple, no matter how innocent it seems.

“So you love the new logo, huh?” she says blithely, as the elevator doors slide closed.

Oliver just hums his agreement.

Later, when she’s wearing nothing but that t-shirt, he shows her just how much.

(Spoiler alert: _a lot._ )

He sews the buttons back on too, a few days later. She wouldn’t have believed it, if she hadn’t caught him sitting by the natural light of the big windows in the loft, diligently repairing the damage.

She curls up on the other end of the sofa to watch his deft hands at work, her feet stretched out towards him. There’s something about watching him work on something so carefully, the steady movement of his hands simultaneously soothing and …  something else. Something that leaves her a little antsy, her breathing unsteady. 

“Patience is a virtue, Felicity,” Oliver mutters, not looking up, but smirking like he knows exactly where her mind is heading. And wow, how the hell does he do that? 

She huffs a laugh, reaching out a toe to poke at his thigh. “Shut up.”

“Done,” he announces eventually, tossing her the repair for inspection. “Am I forgiven?”

“Completely,” she assures him, running a finger over one of the buttons. “And you know,” she goes on, casting the blouse aside, “the shirt I’m wearing right now doesn’t have any buttons at all.”

He moves so fast that she barely catches a glimpse of teeth, the merest flash of a smile, and then he’s kissing her.

 

 


End file.
